


We Shall Be Monsters

by quizasvivamos



Category: Glee
Genre: Alternate Universe, Horror, M/M, Penny Dreadful AU, Romance, Science Fiction, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-01
Updated: 2016-01-07
Packaged: 2018-05-06 08:22:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5409794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quizasvivamos/pseuds/quizasvivamos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dr. Blaine Anderson is a young man of science with a thirst for knowledge and an obsession with human life. Night after night, the streets of London have a tendency of leading Blaine to the same shop to gaze upon its sole inhabitant, but he never dares enter. After watching from afar, a chance meeting changes the course of Blaine’s endeavors. Penny Dreadful AU: Dr. Frankenstein!Blaine</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Riverance](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Riverance/gifts).



> Thank you to my beta for this story, klainebowsanddramioneflies, who was totally awesome and very helpful. :)
> 
> This short fic is a birthday/Christmas gift for the lovely riverance, who is constantly inspiring me with her talent and passion for Kurt and Blaine through her ever wonderful art and always enthusiastic prompts. I've been so incredibly lucky to have met and gotten to know Masha, one of my best friends in fandom. I've been introduced to so many things by her, including Penny Dreadful, and I've been challenged in the best ways possible while collaborating with her and filling the prompts she bestows upon me. 
> 
> Because Dr. Frankenstein and his creations is my personal favorite of the storylines in the Penny Dreadful television series - and because I love Mary Shelley's ingenious novel on/from which the character is based/borrowed - I've placed Blaine and Kurt into the roles for this story. :)
> 
> I really hope you enjoy it! <3

One hand nestled warmly in the pocket of his coat and the other tightly gripping the stiff and sturdy leather handle of his duffle bag, Blaine walked at a brisk pace down the dark, dusty London street, humming softly to himself. He had conjured up the tune from the deep recesses of his mind, uncertain of its exact origins, and it was oddly comforting. 

There was a distinct scent in the cool autumn air carried by a relentless, bitter breeze that nipped at Blaine’s nose and ears, raising the blood to settle just below the surface and giving the exposed skin a pinkish glow. The rain was coming, and, with any luck, it would storm. It wasn’t the scent alone, but the aching in his knees that always arose before the droplets fell from the heavens that acted as an omen. However, the rain could wait until Blaine was safely in the shelter of his home.

An anguished groan sounded from an alleyway, and the young doctor picked up his pace. After tending to the sick and injured day in and day out, Blaine often turned a blind eye to those suffering on the streets as he made his way home. The streets of London were overflowing with the suffering, with filth, and with death.

Human life was such a peculiar thing, and it both fascinated and terrified Blaine. He’d spent countless hours over the course of his years of studies on research, learning the ins and outs, the what and why of human anatomy. He’d deconstructed cadavers and put them almost flawlessly back together piece by piece. He understood how the body functioned, how each minute piece was intricately connected like a neatly fit together puzzle, a series of systems like circuits, how life was a series of chemical reactions and electrical pulses.

Blaine was a man of science, not a particularly religious man, though he was spiritual in his own way. He believed that God had created mankind and then left men to their own devices to figure out the mysteries of nature and the universe, to make order of their chaotic world and create law based on reason, and that life was a game of strategy, its vessels a plaything for him to unlock the secrets of. And he thought he’d gotten close and was currently on the brink of discovering the biggest secret of them all.

As Blaine passed the building that housed the tailor, he paused by the wide storefront window in a spot that gave him a clear view inside the feebly illuminated shop. There was a life inside that fascinated him far more than any he’d encountered in his medical and scientific endeavors, and he stood still, gazing through the slightly foggy glass, his breath coming out as pale puffs of steam before dissipating into the air. All long limbs, lean yet muscular, fair-skinned and light, bright eyes, the man was beautiful - the closest to the most perfect man Blaine had ever seen. He sat poised in a chair at a worktable, deep in concentration as he worked a needle and thread through a tough material, though his expert skills made it appear a smooth, easy task, like the fabric was soft butter being penetrated by a blunt knife.

As he watched the needle pierce the fabric like steady clockwork, Blaine’s body was racked by an immense chill; despite the cold all around him, excitement flooded through him, warming him from his core to the tips of his fingers and toes. Some unknown force seemed to carry him to that same location every night the shop was open, and want held him there. The thought of conquest turned the chill into a tingle that climbed his spine and wrapped around his brain. The ache in his chest mirrored the ache in his knees, suddenly stirring him and reminding him that the rain would begin to fall soon, and he had no intention of getting caught in it.

Homeward bound, Blaine reluctantly left the spot and went on his way.

Home was a modest place, not much of a home in the traditional sense, but livable nonetheless. Function often precluded comfort in the studio-turned-laboratory; there were such scarce furnishings, but Blaine had a bed and a well-lit area for studies with a large, cozy chair. The rest was like a dim, dank warehouse, devoid of warm light, filled only with workspace, lamps that gave off harsh electric light, shelves, tools, and equipment with which he conducted his nightly experiments.

Blaine hefted his medical bag up onto the laboratory table, swiftly pulling the zipper back to gain access to its contents. Carefully, he reached in with both hands and gently grasped the fragile cargo, lifting the disembodied forearm out of its casing and laying it down in the appropriate spot among his collection of human remains before reaching into the bag again to retrieve its brother. All the pieces now in place, Blaine stepped back to admire the sculpturesque male form, each piece specially chosen and fitted together.

Wasting no precious time, Blaine fished out his suture kit from his bag and began to stitch each piece together, joining tendon to muscle to bone to tendon to bone and flesh to flesh. Blaine worked diligently through the night, rejoicing internally as the rain started up and gradually grew more intense, the heavy drops hammering the roof and windows of his dwelling. Sweat on his brow, Blaine’s heart leapt at the first sign of the storm, the flash of lightning before a tremendous bout of thunder that shook the ground and rattled the window panes. It was a race against the clock now as he sealed up the chest cavity, reaching impatiently for the wires of his apparatus to attach them to the electrodes in the correct locations. He adjusted his work and stepped back to stand clear of the body. All he could do now was watch and wait.

The storm raged on outside, battering his shelter, and he grew woozy with anticipation, growing sick at the thought of having made it this far and it all ending in failure.

But then the lightning struck, and the entire room lit up with a blinding white light. Blaine threw up his arms to shield his eyes and leaped back, nearly tumbling over onto the floor. When the light faded, Blaine opened his eyes, straining to see past the spots floating in his vision to gaze upon the body. His heart was thumping painfully hard in his chest, and then it skipped a beat when a hand twitched. Then the other, the entire body beginning to wake up and come to life.

Blaine moved warily toward the slab, anxious to feel and to touch what he’d created, but he held himself back. As he hovered over the face of the creature, watching its chest rise and fall as its lungs filled and emptied, the eyes snapped suddenly open, and Blaine let out a shriek, stumbling and falling into a table this time, knocking it akilter and causing supplies to spill to the floor, which clattered and shattered as they made impact.

He was frozen in horror as it sat up and glared at him with its hideous yellow eyes. Perspiration formed on every inch of Blaine’s skin as he stared down the demon, for there was no doubt that the unnatural thing he had created was a most abominable descendent of Cain.

What had he done? What had he created?

It shifted, placing its feet on the floor, a vacant glare still fixed on Blaine.

Blaine acted quickly out of fear and on impulse, grabbed a long, thin surgical knife from the mess on the floor, and lunged forward, inserting the blade precisely between the fourth and fifth ribs to pierce the heart.

He withdrew the knife and quickly released his grip, the bloody, sharp metal tool falling by his feet. He stood frozen as the brute’s knees buckled and it fell heavily to the ground, crumpling over as it bled out and became lifeless once more.

As Blaine’s senses returned to him, he looked upon the grisly scene, his eyes raking over the destruction of the culmination of all his hard work, and then his stomach turned, and he retched, gripped the edge of the nearest table, and vomited. 


	2. Chapter 2

Blaine’s eyes scanned the minute text on the page before he flipped to the next section, straightening up his posture when he read the headline. The obituaries were always of great interest to Blaine, almost like perusing a buyer’s catalogue, but today’s issue of the newspaper contained the detailed account of a death that struck him in a particularly profound way.

Blaine read of the untimely passing of the young tailor in town: one infected with the most deadly consumption, his lungs collapsed, cutting off the flow of oxygen to the brain and stopping his heart. Although the way in which he went was unusually sudden, the illness was ruled as the cause of death. No more was said about him; he was just another statistic, another poor, anonymous soul taken too soon.

Finished with his reading, Blaine folded up the paper, set it on his desk, and finally looked over at his laboratory table.

There his latest specimen was, laid out so neatly. Besides the faulty, failed internal organs, the body was intact and as beautiful as ever, even more so up close in the soft midday sunlight streaming in.

The most renowned doctor currently in that part of town, Blaine had been the one to conduct the autopsy and report his findings to the authorities. It broke his heart when he discovered the disease, clearly something the tailor had been attempting to hide, but he knew that it was devouring his insides, and he would be dead within the year.

With his fingertips, Blaine lightly traced the immaculate stitching in the flesh down from the collarbone, across the length of the sternum, and then around toward the back beneath the rib cage.

It was a simple fix once he had the necessary components, replacing those faulty organs with ones that were far superior, ones that, once triggered into motion, would function at such high capacity that the specimen would not only live but flourish. If Blaine was successful, he would witness the miracle within hours.

While the summer sun might deceive most, Blaine had prepared for the highly anticipated thunderstorm that was meant to roll in that evening. It thrilled him to no end that, after months of further research and perfecting his methods, he would give life to a better, more lovely being with all the potential to be great.

The light outside grew dim as the sun was masked by the dark clouds drifting in from the east. Blaine paced the floors of his laboratory, stopping occasionally to peer out the window to see if the rain had yet begun. There was no denying it was coming soon, because his knees felt that same ache that had never steered him wrong.

The next hour or so felt like days, and when the storm finally made an announcement of its arrival with a deafening crash of thunder, Blaine sprang into action. In an over practiced and well-orchestrated fashion, Blaine connected all electrical avenues, but the lightning struck at shorter intervals this time, quickly and unexpectedly, and he’d just barely cleared the subject before the current entered it.

Blaine’s heart was beating furiously from his close call, an accident that would have killed him, and his hands shook as he watched in anticipation of the first signs of life.

The man gasped audibly, desperately sucking air into his lungs as if he’d just surfaced from deep waters, and his eyes flew open. His breath came so rapidly that his body seemed to flutter and shake, and then his pulse began to level out as his body became almost still again.

“I’ve done it…” Blaine cried, taking in the reanimated corpse in all its beauty, _his_ creation - all his.

The rush of the accomplishment was so immense that Blaine felt lightheaded and had to take hold of the table’s edge. But his eyes were wide and grew wet as he continued to gaze in awe at the resurrected man.

He’d single-handedly created human life.

The young man pulled himself up into a sitting position, his eyes flicking every which way in his disorientation, trying to make sense of his surroundings, of this strange room and its contents. When his eyes fell upon the doctor, they grew wide, and his mouth fell agape, but no words came out.

“Hello,” Blaine said, faltering before slowly advancing. Although there were still tears in his eyes, he found himself smiling at the man, gazing directly into his striking crystal blue eyes, marred only by swollen blood vessels. He pressed a palm to his chest. “My name is Blaine...Doctor Blaine Anderson.”

“Heh...” the man attempted to imitate the sound with great difficulty, his voice a hoarse whisper. “Heh-loh.”

Blaine laughed, clapping his hands together, which startled the man and caused him to recoil.

“I’m sorry,” Blaine apologized.

“Hello,” he managed again, his voice rough and weak but more solid. “I...I am…” But then the man’s expression changed, distress evident in every feature, and it was clear he was frustrated, lacking the proper memory of exactly who or what he was.

Blaine moved closer, taking the man’s left hand and holding it to the man’s chest. “You are Kurt,” he began, realizing he hadn’t fully planned out this portion of his experiment. Thinking quickly, he said, “You are Kurt Anderson - my cousin.”

“Cousin,” Kurt repeated, his brow furrowing.

Blaine nodded, gently taking hold of Kurt’s right hand as well and tugging him forward to coax him to his feet. He was surprisingly balanced, but Blaine insisted on holding on to steady him. While standing there, Blaine suddenly became aware of Kurt’s nakedness, an aspect of his profession to which he’d become so accustomed, but holding Kurt like that in his state made Blaine’s face begin to burn, and he looked away, knowing he should allow him to cover himself.

After Kurt was clothed in a simple frock and trousers, Blaine lead him toward the dining table and sat him down.

“You must be hungry,” Blaine said, gesturing at his mouth and then his stomach. He tore off a piece of bread from the loaf on the table and lifted it to his mouth, taking a small bite and slowly chewing before swallowing.

Kurt watched him, swallowing as Blaine did, and then he held his hand out. Blaine placed a piece of bread into Kurt’s outstretched palm. Kurt’s eyes fell closed as he nibbled slowly on the bread, and then he took a much larger bite, chewing with ease.

“More?” Blaine asked, and Kurt nodded, the corners of his mouth twitching up into a small grin.

“I am Kurt Anderson,” Kurt said once he was fed and his thirst was quenched. “Why…” is all he could utter, but the grimace of pain on his face was unmistakable.

“You suffered a terrible accident and lost your memory. Your parents...they’ve been dead for several years. As one of your only surviving relatives, I brought you here to my home, Kurt, to look after you while you recover.”

“Memory...I can’t.”

“I know. I don’t know if you ever will remember,” Blaine said, feeling a twinge of guilt, but it was soon masked and overpowered by the strong desire and hope that Kurt’s former life was wiped from his mind when the life left his body.

He was a clean slate now, and Blaine could teach him, mold him into exactly who he wanted him to be. It would be risky for Kurt to remember and reclaim his past identity. Although he was no one to anyone, had no family in the area to speak of, Blaine still feared the possibility of one of Kurt’s former customers recognizing him, a dead man walking.

Kurt believed Blaine, trusting and putting his fate in his hands. What else could he do? He was lost, confused, and frightened, and a handsome man with kind features claiming to be family was offering shelter, and food, and care, while providing him the information to fill in the current void in his head. There was nothing intimidating about his caretaker, not his diminutive size or his demeanor when addressing Kurt, and Kurt found himself taking to the man rather quickly.

-s-

The day passed into the next without incident, and Blaine felt immense relief, his initial worries melting away as the confidence that came with his accomplishment took over. He found that Kurt was extremely receptive and curious. Blaine sat him down throughout the week, cracking open books of literature and science and reading aloud to him, occasionally showing him a drawing or painting and pointing out certain text on the page. He recited poetry and song to Kurt, who watched and listened in wonder for hours without growing bored.

Blaine guided Kurt’s hand as he retaught him how to write his letters, surprised when Kurt caught on so quickly, almost immediately masterfully producing legible, fluid script. In every facet of his learning, Kurt’s progress was remarkable, and when he began to really speak, reciting back lines of poetry, Blaine found himself falling under his spell, his voice like a sweet, soothing lullaby.

They spent long hours in only each other’s company, and it was indisputable that Kurt had formed an attachment to his creator, his savior, a dependency on the man who’d been filling up his empty basin with something much richer than water to quench his thirst.

Each time Blaine went out, leaving Kurt cooped up and alone at home, Kurt felt his absence much more acutely than the time before. He not only needed but craved the interaction, new knowledge, sitting and talking and eating with Blaine as he recounted tales of bravery and beauty as well as horrific and sad accounts of war and greed. But of all the stories Blaine told, Kurt favored the grandiose tales of romance, of heros and of maidens. They stirred something in his chest, transporting him miles away into a world of fancies and filling his head with music and lyrics. Each night, Kurt would bring a book of fairytales to Blaine and request a bedtime story, and Blaine could never deny him.

When Blaine tucked Kurt into bed that night, he momentarily became transfixed, his eyes traveling the length of Kurt’s unconscious form in all its tranquility. Blaine fought back the urge to touch, to feel Kurt’s solid form, to climb onto the cot beside him and worm his way beneath the blankets until he was pressed up against his side, hip to hip, groin to hip...to feel his hot breath on his skin and breathe his same air.

Blaine was finding it increasingly difficult to be in such close proximity to Kurt now. That ache in his chest had migrated to other parts of his body, and he couldn’t look at Kurt without having impure thoughts. It was the reason he had to sometimes leave and wander the streets under the guise that he was out on business, because if he remained in Kurt’s company for even another moment, he was afraid he would give into impulse. In his nineteen years, Blaine had not known another’s touch, the way hands and lips and bodies meet, and although he was well-versed in chemistry, he knew nothing of the chemical reaction that takes place between two people, the one often described as love.

He longed for it and suffered silently, and it killed him that his desire for the same sex could only bring about more suffering and never the love he sought.

It was possible that it wasn’t so far off, that he could have Kurt exactly as he wanted him. After all, what Blaine had managed so far was extraordinary, how he’d conquered death and molded and reshaped a human life. Besides, he had heard the rumors, and with Kurt in his possession, a man with a very limited view of the world and who trusted him entirely, wooing him might be a simple matter of further education.

Blaine closed his eyes and willed away those thoughts for now, for he would need patience in his pursuit, and his weary limbs and mind begged for the rest he was currently denying them. Promptly, he left Kurt’s bedside and made his way toward his own, climbing in to retire.


	3. Chapter 3

Kurt was scrubbing at a spot on the table when he became distracted by his own hands, the shape and size of his fingers, the way they flexed and were so nimble. In all that he’d been doing around the house lately, Kurt was realizing that he was not clumsy and had a way with manipulating things. Not only were his fingers quick and agile, but his mind also had a way of straying and building things from ideas. He could stand looking at a crack in the floor for nearly an hour or a scuff on the window pane, all the while inventing patterns and images in his head. He wasn’t sure if that meant he was remembering, but he knew it meant something.

Blaine had been immersed in study that evening when Kurt timidly approached him.

“Blaine?”

He stirred, slowly looking up from his book with a grin. “Yes?”

“I’ve been having these visions,” Kurt began, “it’s odd and difficult to explain. I have this need to reproduce those images so that others may see what I see inside my mind.”

“You have a need to create. That’s not odd at all.”

“I’ve thought about pictures in books and how the words take on a greater meaning when accompanied by those shapes and colors, and I was wondering if perhaps you could procure for me a set of paints?”

Blaine’s body stiffened at the request, uncertain of whether it would be wise, but then he slowly nodded. “Yes, I could do that. I’ll go into town tomorrow and visit the shops. I’m sure I could find something for you.”

“Oh, thank you so much, Cousin!” Kurt said, beaming and throwing his arms around Blaine’s shoulders to give him a brief embrace.

“Your birthday is coming up, and it’s the least I could do,” Blaine lied. He hadn’t the slightest knowledge of Kurt’s birthday and only knew his approximate age, but it was a harmless lie that could give him an excuse to make the purchase and spend a little more time with Kurt.

“My birthday…? It is?” Kurt asked. “On what day was I born?”

“July,” Blaine said and then added, “the first. We’ll have tea to celebrate.”

“We shall! I would really enjoy that,” Kurt said.

-s-

A few days after Blaine gifted Kurt with his very own paint set and canvas, Kurt had already produced a portrait, but there was something particularly eerie about it. The woman depicted was faceless, though her body was in full form, and her clothing was so intricately detailed as if she was of noble lineage. When Kurt presented it to Blaine, he was taken aback by Kurt’s talent and mildly disturbed by the image. Blaine gazed at it in awe, and his chest swelled with pride.

Blaine hung up the painting high on the wall near his study where he could look upon it easily, which he found himself doing at regular intervals because the faceless woman haunted him. If she’d had eyes, he was sure they would follow him.

The paintings, which Kurt was now producing every few days when left alone for long hours at a time, caused Blaine great unease, but not because they were hideous - they were beautiful beyond measure. No, it was because there were details in the paintings that became clearer and clearer, more expertly done, and during the hours spent laboring over these works, Kurt was deep in concentration, pulling from somewhere Blaine feared was a remnant of his past.

It poured that night, and Blaine laid awake, tossing and turning. When thunder struck, his eyes shot open, and he jumped when he saw a tall figure in shadow standing at his bedside.

“Blaine,” it spoke in a meek voice that he immediately recognized as Kurt’s. “I...I had a terrible dream, a nightmare, and now I can’t sleep. There’s so much noise outside.”

Blaine lay still and quiet, his eyes adjusting, but when he could make out the anxiety etched in every one of Kurt’s features, he pulled back his blanket to climb out of the bed. Having misread the gesture, Kurt took it as an invitation, and he climbed into the bed and slid up against Blaine’s side. Blaine was a bit perplexed, and he froze up, taken unaware when Kurt pressed his body to Blaine’s and draped his arm over his chest, grasping onto him like a frightened child to its mother.

Blaine fought to relax, and as he felt Kurt practically melt beside him, he held him close, his breaths soon matching the gentle, even pattern of Kurt’s. In the comfort of Blaine’s arms, Kurt fell swiftly asleep, but the proximity of their bodies sent Blaine’s nerves on edge, and his entire body woke up.

When Kurt shifted, his fingers ghosted across Blaine’s chest, and he felt himself growing warm and hard with desire. If Kurt were to wake, there would be no way of denying the way Blaine’s body was reacting to him, the way that he could hardly fight the urge to turn to his side and rub himself against Kurt’s solid form, and he was afraid that Kurt would feel his desire through the thin material of his nightclothes and of what might happen if Kurt discovered his arousal.

Blaine closed his eyes and willed his body to calm, a wave of relief washing over him when he felt the tension in his lower regions ease.

Kurt shifted again, his eyes fluttering open, and Blaine chanced a glance. He could have sworn he saw a twinkle of something in Kurt’s eyes, and then he grinned before softly uttering, “Goodnight, Cousin.”


	4. Chapter 4

It was a beautiful, clear summer day, and Blaine had stepped out to pick up a few food items from the marketplace. Fresh loaf of bread and bundled groceries in hand, Blaine made his way home with a slight skip in his step, butcher paper crinkling as he went.

As soon as he crossed the threshold of his home, he stopped dead in his tracks at the sight of Kurt: his frock was spattered with an array of paint, the skin on his arms, hands, and face had dried streaks of all colors, and when he turned around and away from his canvas, his eyes locked with Blaine’s, and he positively lit up, his entire face a luminous smile.

“Blaine! Come, look!” Kurt said, moving forward to grab Blaine’s hand to bring him to his painting.

“It’s…” Blaine’s breath hitched as he gazed upon it, and he was at a loss for words. He swallowed hard. “Beautiful,” he eventually managed.

Kurt had painted the most vibrant, verdant landscape with rolling emerald hills and flowers beneath a cerulean sky that was sparsely decorated with stratus clouds and glowing with an orange sun that lit up the hillsides.

“How did you paint something like this without leaving the house?”

“I saw it in a dream. I was there, and you were there with me. It was warm, there was a light breeze that sent ripples through the long grasses as we walked through the meadow...together,” Kurt added softly, like a shy whisper. “It was so...romantic. Do you think it might not have just been a delusion of an unconscious mind but, perhaps, a memory? You did say I was from the country. Is this where I lived?”

Blaine began to nod, but then he quickly shifted to shake his head. “No, it’s not where you’re from. Unless it’s an area I’ve never seen - until now, that is. It may be something you’ve read in a book,” he suggested.

“Sometimes I wonder about home, and I long to return. But I’d like for you to go with me.”

Blaine was overcome with emotion as he stared at the painting and began to imagine himself in the countryside, fresh air and sunshine, wide open spaces with no one for miles, just him and Kurt. And then the sky became Kurt’s eyes, and Blaine was falling into them, his hands reaching out to finally touch and take hold of the precious vessel he’d bestowed life.

Their mouths collided at an awkward angle, and Blaine held Kurt’s head between his palms and forcefully pressed his lips against Kurt’s as if he needed to climb inside of him to be closer, kissing him like he was stealing his breath, sucking on his lips like he wanted to taste Kurt’s essence. When his brain caught up with his body and Blaine became aware of what he was doing, dread began to swirl sickly in his stomach; he was expecting to be pushed away, to be brutally beaten for crossing such a line, rebuked for taking advantage, but when Kurt wasn’t resisting, Blaine allowed himself to enjoy the kiss for a few more stolen seconds before pulling away.

Kurt’s eyes were wide, and his swollen lips were parted as he stood there, eyes locked with Blaine’s, his expression one of shock.

“You...you kissed me,” Kurt said.

Blaine took a step back, feeling his heart pounding not from arousal, as before, but from fear.

“No,” Kurt said, reaching out to Blaine as he took another step back in attempt to create space, appearing as if he was about to take off running. “Don’t.”

“But, what I did to you - I shouldn’t have done that. I can’t imagine what you must think of me now. No, that was wrong, that was -”

“Enough!”

Blaine froze, alarmed by the outburst.

“I can’t say that I understand...in all the poetry and the fairy tales I’ve read, gentlemen kiss ladies like that, bestow fiery kisses filled with love and passion. Yet, you have kissed me, just like in those stories. And I liked it. It felt good, and my body reacted in the most peculiar way, like I had no control.” Kurt’s cheeks flushed from his confession.

Blaine licked his lips nervously. “I’m sorry,” he said, despite Kurt’s approval. “I need to step out, Kurt. I just - I have to go.”

When the door closed, leaving Kurt on the inside and Blaine on the other side, Kurt turned back toward his painting and heaved out a tired sigh which quickly turned into a quivering breath followed by a sniffle.

A tear rolled silently down his face as he lifted his brush again, his hand trembling as he brought it to the canvas. When the tip made contact, his hand stabilized, and Kurt began to add color, dipping his brush in the paint again and again and guiding it to glide over the canvas. He cried, and then he forgot to cry as he focused hard on the dream he’d had, filling in the one blank space on his canvas with a crucial detail: two small figures walking side by side.

The figures had faces. Both wore smiles.

-s-

When Blaine returned that night, the painting was nowhere in sight, and Kurt was sitting hunched over in Blaine’s chair with a cup of tea clasped between his hands, his expression distant and pensive. He didn’t stir until Blaine had approached him and was only a few feet away, standing in the light and casting his shadow over Kurt.

“I’m back,” Blaine spoke, clearing his throat. “I’m going to undress and settle into bed now.”

“Okay,” Kurt responded simply.

Blaine turned toward his sleeping quarters, and Kurt’s eyes followed him. He politely turned away when Blaine was changing, but once he was under his covers, Kurt turned the light off by the desk and sat in the darkness.

Blaine rolled over under the blanket to face away from where Kurt had been seated and allowed his eyes to close. He heard the padding of bare feet on the floor, drawing nearer to him, but he did not open his eyes. Slowly, the covers were pulled back, and the mattress dipped from the weight of a body that climbed in beside him. Something hard pressed against Blaine’s thigh, and his eyes flew open at the contact.

He finally rolled back over to take in Kurt, whose eyes were dark and flitting every which way as they searched Blaine’s face. A hand fastened around Blaine’s wrist and tugged his hand downward beneath the blankets, bringing it to rest on what was unmistakably Kurt’s arousal.

“That is what I felt happen to my body when you kissed me earlier,” Kurt hissed hotly into Blaine’s ear, raising goosebumps on every surface of his body. “It happens...when you get too close and breathe a little too hot on my skin. Isn’t it peculiar?” Kurt scooted closer to Blaine, moaning softly when he rolled his hips upward against Blaine’s hand that he was holding to himself.

Blaine whimpered and then withdrew his hand, feeling his own body wake up, his cock flushed and full.

Kurt watched him with a question in his eyes, and then his gaze roamed down to fix on Blaine’s arousal that was impossible to hide.

“Touch me,” Kurt said, reaching for Blaine’s hand again, but Blaine was already sliding his hand to palm at Kurt through his clothing. “It feels good and exciting,” Kurt spoke breathily, “being with you like this.” He gasped as Blaine unfastened his pants and slid his hand down to bare skin and encircled Kurt’s cock with his fingers. Kurt let out a stuttering moan, “Please...more.”

Blaine swallowed hard. He had never done anything like this before with a man or woman, but he had imagined it, touching and pleasuring the way he ventured to touch himself on occasion. Holding Kurt in his hand was familiar yet strange; he was shaped the same yet larger, fuller with a different curve. He knew he’d felt a strong attraction to this man, had lusted after him since he’d first seen him, but now Blaine quite literally had him in his grasp, begging for him to make love to him, and Kurt was gorgeous in that state, impossible to resist.

Eagerly, Blaine stroked Kurt’s cock, losing his mind over the provocative sounds that passed through Kurt’s parted lips. Blaine captured Kurt’s mouth with his, swallowing the breaths and moans and feeling the vibrations of Kurt’s body as he tightened his grip and quickened his pace.

When Kurt came, keening loudly, Blaine involuntarily thrust his hips forward and grinded against Kurt’s thigh, growing hot and dizzy from the sensation. He continued to rut against him until he was close to the edge, and then he fell completely apart, shuddering as he came inside his nightclothes.

As they lay there, Blaine felt dirty, his clothing clinging to his skin, but he was warm and sated and exhausted. His hand rested heavily on Kurt’s chest, and he could feel the beating of his strong heart beneath his palm.

Kurt shifted, enveloping Blaine in his arms, and they fell asleep tangled up in each other, their breaths steadying, coming out almost in sync.


	5. Chapter 5

There was a steady beat, a certain rhythm to how Kurt worked when he was on his own, especially in the throes of creating and his art. At first, it had taken a lot of energy and concentration, but now the patterns and rhythms felt familiar and second nature like he’d been doing it forever. And he was left alone often, isolated and secure inside Blaine’s home while the doctor was out. He’d never been allowed to leave, though he never had much of a desire to. It was never addressed, why Blaine insisted Kurt remain indoors, but he assumed that going out into the city might stunt his recovery.

The stitches had been removed several days ago, but Kurt often undid his shirt and found himself examining the large, crosshatching scars that snaked down his chest, marring his body. Kurt liked how he looked, his long, slender physique, the curves and angles of his face, but he hated how the scars cut through his smooth, alabaster skin, making him ugly when he was stripped down. He felt exposed in more ways than one, vulnerable and naked, but Blaine had never seemed bothered by Kurt’s disfigurement and made him feel safe.

He stood in front of the looking glass, slowly unbuttoning his shirt, and then he pressed his fingertips to the ridged skin and lightly traced the sutures’ pathway, realizing he’d been opened up, his skin peeled back like the skin of a fruit, and Blaine had been inside of him. And then he sealed him back up with such skill and precision.

Quickly, he fastened his shirt back up, concealing his imperfections and keeping them hidden from the world, but halfway through, he paused. Something about Kurt’s shirt caught his eye, a loose string, and he lifted the hem to examine the seam. The stitching in the shirt must have been snagged on something, and Kurt’s eyes traveled along the seam, noticing the way the threads were woven into the material and around each other. He undid the shirt again, sliding it off his shoulders and back, and took it over to sit by the lamp in order to see it better.

With nimble fingers, he picked and pulled at the thread, unraveling it from the garment without the material fraying. The stitching in the clothing resembled the stitching in his skin, how it held the pieces together, maintaining the whole entity. He thought perhaps he could repair it, and his fingers worked at the material, the movements and patterns easy. Absentmindedly, he continued, not realizing that he had been slowly pulling the shirt apart. The fabric still in his grasp, Kurt rose from the chair and made his way toward the chest he kept his clothing in, crouching down to flip open the lid and access its contents.

Kurt fished through the few outfits he owned until he came across a pair of trousers, which he took from the chest and laid across his lap. The placement of the seams, the patterns of the stitching, everything about the construction was familiar, and Kurt realized he knew how each shape, each piece of cut fabric, was sewn together to create the whole garment.

Something sat heavy in his stomach, an indescribable sick feeling. Something like longing laced with dread.

Suddenly, it felt like his lungs were collapsing, and he couldn’t breathe, like he was suffocating, fighting, coughing, and gasping for air. Kurt sank his fingers into the fabric, his head pounding and chest heaving while a voice rang out in his head…

_Kurt..._

_I am Kurt…._

_I am Kurt Hummel…_

_Kurt Hummel..._

The voice in his head was his own.

A jumbled barrage of images and memories assailed his mind, and Kurt fell to the floor, still gripping and twisting the fabric until it tore, and the name _Kurt Hummel_ echoed in his head, beating against his skull like a mallet repeatedly striking the head of a drum.

He was Kurt Hummel, a lone tailor who was dying from consumption.

It was as if he could feel the pain in his chest again, a phantom pain so strong that he felt like he might lose consciousness.

In the midst of his panic, Kurt hadn’t heard the door open or Blaine enter.

It appeared as if a storm had blown through his home, and Blaine stood frozen in the doorway, a silent spectator while Kurt ripped and tore apart his wardrobe, tossing fabric every which way. He let out an anguished howl as he rose to his feet and chucked a tattered shirt halfway across the room, knocking over a lamp and sending it crashing to the ground where it smashed into pieces. Blaine hadn’t known what triggered him and sent him into a rage, but he had half a mind to turn right back around and run while he still could before Kurt knew of his presence, but he’d hesitated too long.

Kurt spun around, catching sight of Blaine through the tears that blurred his vision. He moved quickly and with intent, and Blaine couldn’t think or move fast enough to evade him, stunned when Kurt grabbed the front of his shirt and tugged, jerking him forward and nearly tearing it from his body.

“You,” Kurt began, his voice a deep, hoarse growl. “You lied.” He yanked on the shirt again, pulling Blaine closer until he was so close that Blaine could feel his hot breath on his face and nearly taste his salty tears. “Tell me why you lied to me, Blaine Anderson. I-I remember e-everything,” he stammered, choked up. “Everything.”

“I-I can explain,” Blaine said, his stomach growing sick from panic. But he wasn’t sure he really could come right out with the truth. Would Kurt even believe him? Just how much of Kurt’s memory had he actually recovered?

Kurt let out a pitiful cry, releasing his grip on Blaine. He looked down, remembering he’d taken off his shirt and realizing his chest was exposed and those ugly scars were on display, and he felt ugly, like a monster with his face contorted with anger and tears. He raged on, choking and sobbing, blinded by more tears, and with one swift, strong, sweeping movement of his arm, he shoved the objects on Blaine’s desk to the floor to join the mess.

And then Kurt stopped with such an abruptness that Blaine held his breath. Like a soldier fallen in battle, Kurt fell definitively to his knees, the shredded clothing and broken things littering the floor all around him.

And then a pathetic whimper broke the silence.

“Why...? What happened to me? There wasn’t really an accident, was there?”

“None of what happened was an accident.”


	6. Chapter 6

Kurt looked up at Blaine through wet lashes. “What do you mean?”

“There was no accident. I watched you from afar, admired you and felt drawn to you, and I didn’t really know what it all meant. And you always sat there alone, toiling in that dusty shop. I was too much of a coward to introduce myself. All I knew was that I would never have you.”

“Unless you took me by force,” Kurt said.

“No, it wasn’t like that. I never planned what happened,” Blaine said. “I didn’t know anything about you besides your occupation, not until I followed you out one night, and we met at the pub.”

“I remember...that ‘chance’ meeting,” Kurt said. “It wasn’t a coincidence at all.”

“No, it wasn’t. But that was when I first heard your voice, and you told me your name...Kurt Hummel. I knew almost immediately after spending time in your presence that you were dying. You tried to conceal it, but there was no mistaking the cough or the coloring of your skin. Your body was so weak. It was such a pity, to lose a life in such a lovely, youthful body.”

Kurt’s eyes grew wide in realization. “You...what did you do to me?!”

“You had so little time left - you were practically wasted away. It was quick, and then you were no longer suffering,” Blaine tried to reason. “I gave you life.”

Kurt stood there in shock, revolted, confused.

“You...you’re not a doctor, you’re a monster,” Kurt said, backing up. Blaine reached out for Kurt’s arm to stop him, but he dodged him. “Don’t touch me.”

“Don’t leave, Kurt,” Blaine pleaded. “Please, don’t leave.”

“I despise you,” Kurt spoke in a voice so calm that it chilled Blaine to the bone.

All he could do was watch Kurt walk away.

He left Blaine's home and entered the streets of London to roam as the ghost he now was. Blaine didn’t know where he was going or whether or not he would ever return.

Blaine’s eyes burned with the tears he’d been fighting to keep at bay, and then he succumbed to his sorrow, and his body shook violently with each aching sob. There was no defending what Blaine did, as horribly wretched and immoral as it was, and he had no intention of trying. But he’d done it, committed a most loathsome act for the sake of science and selfish ambition, and he believed he deserved no forgiveness, no amnesty, especially from Kurt. However, if he could take it all back and was given the chance to have walked out of the pub that night without pursuing the young tailor and had left Kurt to continue to suffer and die, Blaine still would have done the same, for greatness often came at a price. The sacrifices had been made, and Blaine would suffer, consumed by remorse, but he believed it was a fair price to pay for what he had created.


	7. Chapter 7

The morgue was a cold, grim, and desolate place, but Blaine’s empty home was even colder. He’d slept alone the night before, unable to shake worries about Kurt’s whereabouts long enough to get even a fraction of a proper rest. Concentrating on his work proved futile, and he’d thrown down his tools in a fit of frustration.

But now he was trudging home, heavy with exhaustion, wary of opening his door to silence, of entering the place devoid of the kind, angelic face and laughter that had greeted him for what felt like an eternity.

He took hold of the door’s handle, unlatching the lock, and entered the dimly lit dwelling with his head hung. When Blaine looked up, he was taken aback by the occupant of his chair.

Kurt appeared exhausted, yet his expression was grave and determined, his jaw set firmly and eyes intense. He said nothing when his gaze fell upon Blaine, and Blaine was even more scared to speak and break the static silence hovering between them.

Slowly, cautiously, he approached Kurt, who didn’t look as if he was angry and would lash out; he looked sad.

Blaine found his voice. “You’re back.”

Kurt nodded. “I couldn't stay away. Am I still welcome here?"

"Yes, yes, of course."

"Something you said yesterday...it struck me, and I haven't been able to wrap my head around it. You said you did this to me, made me into this creature, because you desired me...you'd watched me, stood in the street outside the window of my shop, looking in and wishing you were somewhere else - inside, with me, perhaps. But you were alone out in the cold. You never once opened the door and entered. You never introduced yourself...until that night you met me at the pub."

“I - I just couldn’t,” Blaine said.

“Because you were ashamed of your desires to be with another man? Afraid of what it might do to your reputation? How being a sodomite might ruin your life and even end it?”

“No…it’s not like that, Kurt.”

"But you were afraid...of me. It’s a shame. I think, if perhaps things had turned out differently...I could have loved you. If only for the few days I had left on this earth."

Blaine’s heart skipped a beat. "You must have felt something, that day I kissed you, and then when we made love…?"

"You are a deeply flawed and selfish man, Blaine Anderson. But underneath all your ambition and avarice, there is still some good. I see a very small, lost, young man, who is starved of the very thing all mankind needs from the moment we breathe our first breaths, take air into our lungs just to scream."

Kurt shifted, uncrossing his legs as if he was about to rise to his feet, but he remained seated.

"I, too, was starved of it. A leper, being consumed by illness. A filthy homosexual - though, publicly, it was only speculation. I knew what I was. People still came into my shop and requested my services, but it was because I was the best in town. Not even their wives could do the things I could do with fabrics and dyes, couldn't mend the wares they'd worn in and worn out. And at the end of the day, I was still there, working tirelessly at the only thing I'd ever known, the only thing that brought me solace and gave me purpose."

This time, Kurt placed his hands firmly on the arms of the chair and rose steadily to his feet to stand almost at eye level with Blaine.

"But then you came into my life. And you snuffed it out, like a strong, swift gust over the frail flame of a candle. In doing so, you gave me new life and new purpose, but a cursed existence built upon lies and deceit. But I didn’t suffer anymore. Upon my rebirth, all that I was starved of, all that I craved, you were there, so willing to give to me, like a humble servant, a patient teacher, a nurturing parent - affection, education, power...even sex."

Blaine’s cheeks colored at Kurt’s candor, and he swallowed hard.

"You manipulated me into the perfect image of strength and beauty...what it all means through your eyes. You could have made me ugly, something to be despised that even a mother would turn away from. You could have kept me dumb and ignorant. But you had every intention of defining me to suit your deepest, darkest, and purest desires. And, yet...I am visibly intact, my countenance the mirror image of my former self...except for my telltale eyes. While I am still uncertain of the extent of what you've created or of what I am capable, I do know that the heart you placed inside my body with so much skill and care and made beat once more, it beats for you in more ways than one."

Kurt lunged forward without warning, grabbing Blaine’s face in his hands and sinking his fingers into his hair, and smashed their mouths together. There was desperation and violence in the kiss as Kurt dominated Blaine, who gave into it entirely, like a surrender of all his senses and sensibilities. And as Blaine kissed him back, he knew the true meaning behind that bittersweet kiss, that the taste of Kurt’s lips and the strength with which he forced himself on him was a message: Kurt belonged to no one.

Kurt pulled away with a sharp intake of air, and his lips curled into a subtle smirk, his eyes burning with triumph and a newfound power. Blaine was weak to his touch, paralyzed by his gaze, and lost his wit at every word Kurt spoke.

“I was a poor, sick immigrant and an orphan, and, now? I’m so much more. There were days I prayed for death to take me, to put an end to my misery. I never imagined that he would come in the form of a small, dark, handsome doctor who fancied himself a god. I never imagined that I would be given a second chance at life and all that I never had before. You’ve built me and built me up, setting me high on a pedestal. You didn’t cower; you wanted someone to worship, to submit to. Now, you will submit to me.”

Blaine stared in reverence, something like a whimper escaping him, and when he opened his mouth to respond, Kurt cut him off.

“Don’t speak. There’s no need. For days, we pored over books of literature and poetry and song, and through their pages, you shared with me your world, imparted your wisdom, knowledge, and language, perhaps unknowingly revealing to me the most intimate parts of you, the very fibers that make up your soul. You read to me, the musicality of your voice strumming every cord in my being, and like the taste of the forbidden fruit, opened my eyes and awoke all my senses. You gave me the greatest gift a person can receive, and when I showed prowess, talent you had never dreamed of, you didn’t turn away from me or cast me out. But, forgive me, I’ve done enough talking for the both of us. Now is no longer the time for long-winded soliloquies or explanations of motive.”

Kurt placed his hands at Blaine’s waist and drew him in close until their bodies were nearly flush. With considerably more tenderness than before, Kurt pressed a kiss to Blaine’s forehead, and then he reached up to lightly brush a few stray curls from Blaine’s face in order to see his hazel eyes clearly.

“The world may look upon us and see monsters, but we shall embrace each other for what we are. We are together, away from the eyes of society, and there’s no need to explain ourselves. Words have a way of wounding and healing, of empowering and of moving mankind much like the winds that blow all around us, but words are of little use when the touch of the lips and the press of fingertips send tremors through our bodies strong enough to rock the earth we stand upon, to crumble it into pieces and transport our souls and minds to a realm of pure pleasure and fantasy, where souls mingle and become one.” Kurt’s hand traveled up the back of Blaine’s shirt, skin caressing skin and sending a pleasant chill up his spine, and then he dug his fingertips into Blaine’s back by his shoulder blade, leaning in and uttering just above a whisper into his ear, “Let us go to that place, Blaine, and linger for as long as our bodies allow.” 


End file.
